


Dynamic Duo

by Hth



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode Related: Warriors, M/M, None - Freeform, Series: Sixteen Instinctual Behaviors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:10:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hth/pseuds/Hth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair finally gains the power to make Jim do stuff; Jim makes breakfast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dynamic Duo

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Warriors. Okay, see, the thing is that I work the morning shift in a bakery, so I think a lot about cinnamon rolls and cherry danishes and other things people have for breakfast. This explains the subgenre of BreakfastFic, which I am single-handedly pioneering. Website forthcoming.

## Dynamic Duo

by Betty Plotnick

Author's webpage: <http://internettrash.com/users/livia/plotnick/betty.htm>

* * *

Dynamic Duo  
by Betty Plotnick 

Blair Sandburg was...down. Jim could feel it in the air; Jim could almost smell it. It was that nondescript Sandburg _down_ that wasn't quite depressed and wasn't irritable, but still managed to make the kid drag around the loft like half of himself until the mood wore off, or got smacked off of him by some new adventure. 

The down times were part and parcel of the Life With Sandburg experience, just a vicissitude that Jim had accepted when he gave up his independence. Blair cooked, Blair played irritating music, Blair had a smile that worked on him like a kidney punch, Blair kept weird hours, Blair dated women that were obviously all wrong for him, Blair moped around every now and then. It was Blair. 

It was Blair, Jim told himself. Just Blair. The kid -- the *man,* Jim corrected himself sternly -- the man never changed. Never had, never would. 

And still Jim kept finding excuses to prowl the house, keeping Blair surreptitiously in his sights. Checking. Monitoring, just as shamelessly as Sandburg, not all that long ago, had watched and monitored him for any slight twitch of his senses or his stability. 

Just Blair. Jim had raked him over the coals every way, with every sense he knew how to use, and there was nothing -- other than that bland and familiar _down_ \-- going on with Sandburg. He looked the same, smelled the same, sounded the same, was the same, was exactly and in every detail Blair Sandburg. Jim's Blair Sandburg. A bit down, but undeniably himself. 

It took almost twenty-four hours for the pieces to fall into place, while Jim was standing idly in the shower. Because...something _should_ have changed, shouldn't it? The idea was like sandpaper across the inside of Jim's chest. He hated to admit it, but in this particular case, Blair was being just a little...too...stable. 

Something had happened to Blair, to both of them, and the old Blair -- *old Blair?* what the *fuck?* whatever happened to never had, never would? \-- but the Blair Sandburg that Jim knew would have spent the last day and night stuck to the ceiling by the centrifugal force of his own excitement. But the man in Jim's house was so damned mellow that it was beginning, truthfully, to piss Jim off. 

He got out of the shower like a man storming a beachhead. Jim had a mission, and he had a strategy: fix Sandburg, and beat Sandburg's ass until he was fixed, respectively. It was strangely exhilarating, really. The Sentinel of the Great City's first official act of heroic altruism. He was ready. 

"Hey, Jim," Sandburg said without looking at him when Jim strode into the kitchen. "Want a Pop Tart?" 

It was as good an opening line as any. "No, Sandburg, I don't want a goddamn Pop Tart." 

Sandburg glanced over his shoulder, wide-eyed. "O-*kay.* Sheesh. What's the matter with you this morning?" 

All right, maybe that had been a little strong, right out of the gate. "Nothing. Nothing, I was just -- I was thinking about cooking a real breakfast, that's all. Belgian waffles?" 

Sandburg's eyes softened into something that looked a lot like pity. "Sure, Jim, that sounds nice." After a carefully timed diplomatic pause, he added, "How are you feeling today?" 

"I'm fine. Look, if you don't want waffles, just say so. I'm not too fragile to take your pastry rejection." 

"Okay, A) it is not an insult to take an interest in your general well-being shortly after the death of somebody you cared about, so get that pissy look off your face, and B) I'm not sure a waffle is technically a pastry. I'm thinking not, actually." 

"Are we going to have another bitch session about my inability to have healthy relationships with breakfast food? Because I think that would be fun." He freighted the words with as much sarcasm as the law allowed, faintly certain even as it was happening that this op was in serious trouble. 

But after a brief, puzzled pause, Blair anted up with the first real smile Jim had seen from him in the past twenty-four hours. The smile gained momentum like an avalanche, and before Jim knew what was happening, he was being attacked and hugged. "You're a hundred percent, man, you're a hundred percent," Blair laughed. "You do the waffle thing. Go crazy." 

Which was how Jim Ellison ended up making breakfast instead of saving the world. The waffles turned out pretty well, though. 

By the time he was serving the first batch, Jim had resigned himself to the inevitable: he would just have to ask Blair how he was feeling. It lacked finesse, but maybe the sheer novelty of the situation would startle Blair into spilling his guts already, so that Jim could figure out for sure what he was here to make Blair stop doing, or start doing, or whatever. Jim watched Blair nod his approval of the waffles as he scarfed them down, and for an endless, awful moment, he could feel himself _becoming_ his father, eating those interminable dinners with his sullen family, breaking the silences with such dogged attempts at communication as, *What did you boys learn in school today?* 

"So how's life as the Shaman of the Great City?" It was a stupid thing to say. Jim _knew_ it was a stupid thing to say. His only hope was that it was _such_ a stupid thing to say that it would prompt Blair to save his pathetic ass by taking over the conversation. The only thing worse than having reason to suspect that he was becoming as much of a bastard as his father, Jim knew, was having reason to suspect that his father hadn't been as much of a bastard as he'd always believed. Having a family was, quite frankly, hard fucking work. 

Blair took no pity on him, however. Blair just chuckled, and kept eating. Jim picked at his own waffles, stretching the hope that Blair was merely composing his response until he'd stretched it way past the bounds of reality. Blair probably had never spent this much time preparing his thoughts before blurting them out in his entire life -- all combined. "Are you just not going to answer me?" Jim managed, a little tightly, but not entirely combative. He hoped. 

"What, that was an actual question? Why -- aw, man! Aw, Jim, you aren't \-- you took that *seriously?* That whole...way of the shaman thing?" 

"Well...yes. Didn't...you?" 

On the positive side, Blair's _down_ mood seemed to be a thing of the past. Then again, Jim could have lived without being laughed at this morning, which Blair eventually seemed to be picking up on. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, man. It's just -- Jim, come on. You think it really works that way? 'You wanna be a shaman?' 'Sure, cool.' 'Here you go, wear it in good health.' No way, man. There's a whole set of preconditions and initiatory experiences -- you're either born to it, by heredity or by some particular mark or omen -- being born with an intact caul is a really common one -- or you train for _years_ under another shaman, usually both." 

"What are you telling me, Sandburg? Incacha didn't know what he was talking about, but you do?" 

It was a question with no right answer, and Blair caught on to that right away. "Hey, I'm not -- jeez, Jim, way to twist things around, man. Look, I didn't know Incacha as well as you did, but he seemed to know _you_ pretty well, and maybe the thing is that he knew you'd fall apart without him--" 

"Well, hell, Sandburg--" 

"Please, you fell apart. But maybe he thought that if you had some way to hold on to the idea that he could keep guiding you after he was gone, you'd, you know, hang in there." 

"That's your theory." 

Blair rolled his eyes. "Well, fuck me, Jim, what's your theory? I'm a shaman now? I got my honorary degree and I'm all ready to go? Jim, it's just me, man. I'm not some kind of -- spiritual authority all of a sudden or anything like that. I mean, that's...that's nuts." 

Suddenly, Jim had no more stomach for saving the world, and as for Sandburg, if he'd had a few bricks and a trowel, Jim would have been happy to wall him up in the spare room and let him die there. "Fine," Jim growled. "I'm sure you're right. I mean, you're the fucking expert, right?" 

"Jim--" 

"No, hell, what would the rest of us know about anything? You know me, Sandburg, just tell me what to believe, and I'll get right on it." 

"Come on, Jim, come back to me, here. Don't get yourself all worked up." 

Jim picked up his own strawberry syrup-stained plate and threw it as hard as he could against the wall; the shattering made his ears hurt, but the way Sandburg jumped and looked horrified was compensation enough. "Why the fuck are you doing this to me, Sandburg? Don't you fucking understand that this is what we've both been waiting for?" 

He leaned back in his chair, giving Jim a steady look that was as much wary as it was interested. "Say more about that." 

"More? What _more_ do you want? *Sentinel.* *Shaman.* I thought you wanted to be my *partner,* Blair. I thought you wanted in." 

"Not enough to lie to myself about it. Not half enough to lie to you." 

"Are you scared?" It sounded uncomfortably like a taunt. Why did it come out wrong, every time Jim tried to do that thing where he let people know they should be able to talk to him? Bad enough that it had always come out wrong with Carolyn, but with Sandburg, who must have demonstrated the technique for him a hundred and fifty times in the last two years? 

But rather than offended, Blair just sounded resigned. "Jim, I'm realistic. I know you're inclined to take the word of an actual shaman over some geek with a library card, and normally I'd be right there with you on that, but.... Look, I don't know _what_ Incacha had in mind, I'm not going to speak to his motives for saying what he said. But, please, Jim, you have to believe that I know what the way of the shaman is. It means being an intermediary between the living and the dead, being able to travel the spirit world and defend yourself from its hazards at will; it means living a life that's almost totally liminal, never quite part of the tribe but never able to remove yourself from it. There's elements of transgressive gender and social behavior, ecstatic rituals, altered perceptions of reality, a complicated network of debts and favors that you owe to various spirit beings, and debts and favors that you can call in from them, too. You do _not_ just fall into it, Jim. It's a whole life, it controls everything you do, everything you are. And if I somehow _did_ fall into it, don't you think I'd be able to tell? Don't you think I would feel...something?" 

Damned if it didn't make sense, too. Sandburg always made way too much sense for Jim's peace of mind, but this time Jim wasn't inclined to cede as much ground as usual to the _realistic_ thing to do. " _I_ felt something." 

Sandburg's expression softened, the hint of a smile appearing at the corners of his lips and eyes as he reached out to cover Jim's hand with his own. "What you felt, Jim, that was just *trust.* Hard as this may be for you to believe, it's not all that mystical an experience. But that doesn't mean it's not important." 

At long last, a chink in Sandburg's intellectual armor. He was _wrong_ about this -- he was wrong, and Jim could prove it. "I had a vision...." 

"Man, you have visions at the drop of a hat. I swear, I just stick a pair of earphones on you and tell you to visualize your safe place, and you have this life-altering transcendental experience. If _anyone_ has a pipeline to the other side around here--" 

"It wouldn't have happened without you. What's the matter with you, Chief? I thought you were the kid who wanted to be Batman when he grew up. Here you may have some kind of -- some kind of power, just handed to you on a plate, and you can't even be bothered to check it out." 

Abruptly, Blair stood up with the plate of half-eaten waffles in his hands. "You know what, Jim? Forget it. I don't even want your waffles anymore; I have a lot of things to do this morning." 

"You're blaming the _waffles_ for this?" 

"No, I'm blaming _you_ for serving me pity waffles! Jim, you have got to quit this. You've just got to *stop.* I don't want your waffles, I don't want your body, I don't want your superpowers, I don't want any of this shit that you keep trying to give me because it'll make me happy." 

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do to make you happy if things that make you happy piss you off?" 

On his way around Jim headed for the dishwasher, Blair slowed down just long enough to thump Jim's chest with the back of his hand. "Just lighten up, man. You try too--" 

Jim caught the hand and hung on to it. From the way Blair's eyes widened, he might have been hanging on a little hard, but right now Jim had bigger things on his mind. He'd apologize later. "You don't try hard enough." 

"Come on, Jim--" 

"No. No, you stand here, and you tell me what you want." 

"I've already told you that, man. You know my priorities. I told you, I want to stay with you, I want to keep being your partner, I want to stay with the department for as long as I can swing it. Jim, let go of me." 

"Make me." 

The look of shock on Blair's face would have been funny under almost any other circumstances. "Are you out of your mind?" 

"Come on, Sandburg! You love bossing me around. Tell me what to do." 

"Let go of me!" 

"No!" Jim knew he was yelling, and he hoped that Sandburg could just look at him in that way he did sometimes and know what was really going on -- maybe see through his bluster and into the void of confusion and old guilt that seemed to be biting deeper into Jim month by month. "Not until you admit that things are different now!" 

"Nothing is different, Jim! I have _nothing_ for you! Whatever you want, I don't feel it, I feel just like I always did, I'm not your fucking shaman!" 

Jim pulled on his arm, jerking the side of Sandburg's open hand against his chest, once and then again. His vision was going haywire, losing all sense of distance and depth, and Jim could hear that horrible ringing in his head, the constant rush of wind and heartbeat that had almost driven him insane, not once but twice. 

*Can't you see that this is killing me?* 

It was a zone-out, or something worse -- he was hearing his own voice from farther away than even a Sentinel should be able to hear it. Years away. He could feel blood thrumming under the soft skin of Blair's palm as Jim's thumb pressed into it, but it was Incacha's voice he heard, speaking to him in Quechua, saying, *I will not permit it. You will listen to me, and you will live.* 

Blair was wrong. He was so terribly, fatally wrong. He wouldn't say these things, if he understood what it was like to be a Sentinel, and to be alone. 

*Can't you see?* 

*I can't. I can't.* Jim could remember the keen taste of the gunmetal on his tongue. He remembered the bones of Incacha's fingers as they pried his hand away from the trigger. Those bones had felt as though they'd taste like metal. *Just let me die....* 

*I need you to live.* 

So simple, with Incacha. There had been no explanations, no tests, none of the answers that Blair always seemed so obsessed with digging up, somewhere amidst the allergies and the zone-outs and the visions and those minor disasters that Blair always tagged with the dryly scientific name *reactions.* With Incacha, it was always, Do it this way, because I tell you to. Live through this because I need you to. 

*Are you going to tell me to calm down?* 

*No! I need your emotions up, and I need them open! You've got to get your senses back!* Blair's hand, harder than gunmetal, smashing into his chest, punctuating his demands. So simple. Live through this. 

Because Blair needs you to. 

Still disoriented, Jim reached forward, hoping to hell that Blair was where he ought to be. He was. Jim's arms closed around him, and somehow he was moving and not moving at the same time, and the one sense he had completely on-line was smell. It smelled like Blair. 

Later, God only knew how much later, he could hear Blair's talking to him, his voice cracked and soft. "--and of course Devereaux thought they were all just borderline psychotics, but that's Devereaux, right? Always the charmer. I mean, I'm not going to deny the relationship between shamanism and certain forms of, you know, yeah, disorders, we can call them that, right? Like epilepsy and schizophrenia, because sure-- Hey. Hey, Jim, are you back?" 

Jim stirred again, his body obeying him a little more adroitly this time. His senses checked in one at a time, letting him know that he was on the kitchen floor, with his head on Blair's chest and Blair's arms draped loosely around his shoulders. "I'm back," he said, and his jaw felt not quite hinged correctly. "What did I miss?" 

"History of anthropological interpretations of shamanism. I was just about to get to Levi- Strauss." 

"Sorry to interrupt." 

"Nah, forget it. It's all pretty thin until you get to Eliade. How do you feel?" 

"Like an idiot, but thanks." 

Blair dismissed that with a horsey little snort. "You needed it." With a little shock, Jim recognized that Blair's fingers were digging comfortably into his neck. "He's dead, man," Blair said softly, bending his head a little lower over Jim's. "You don't have to, you know. Bounce right back." 

"You want to know why I went up on the roof with you?" 

"Because it was the right thing to do?" 

He felt himself shaking a little, and then realized with relief that he was laughing. "No. No, that's not even remotely why." 

"To find the people who killed Incacha." 

"Nice thought, but no." 

"Okay, then tell me." 

"I did it to shut you up. Because you were yelling at me, and I just wanted you to stop." 

After a little pause, Blair started to chuckle, too. "There you go. That can be my superpower. I'm so goddamn irritating that you'd rather go out and find some new way to risk your life than hang around and listen to me talk." 

How could Blair not see it? After all these years, shouldn't it have been obvious? But then, the whole communication thing would be so much easier if more things were as obvious as they really should be. "Of course that's your superpower, Sandburg. You think just anybody can order me around like you do?" 

"Guess not, man. Guess not. Hey...Jim?" 

"What?" 

"I really think it's time we talked about these visions of yours. Something's going on with you, man. You've got something." 

"I can't give this one to you, huh?" he tried, and it was half a feeble joke, half an even more feeble truth. 

Blair squeezed his shoulder warmly. "Man, I wish you could, you know? I wish I could tell you I had something like that for you, but I don't. I told you, Jim -- I have your *trust.* That's what I have. And if that, or possibly my incredible capacity for obnoxiousness, gets you to do the things you have to do to take care of yourself, then there you go. That's the partner you've got." 

"I don't know, Chief. You sounded...you _sounded_ like him. I thought...." 

"Well. I guess I know you pretty well, too." 

Jim took stock of the situation. Sandburg was no longer down; he sounded fondly indulgent in that superior way that Jim sort of liked. On the other hand, he hadn't made much headway on...God, whatever it was he'd walked into this hoping to talk Sandburg into. Why had he even bothered? Sandburg did what he did; he never changed. Jim might have just saved his energy and eaten the Pop Tart. "Hey...Sandburg?" 

"What?" 

"Did you dump my waffles on the floor?" 

"Well, yeah, I guess I did. While you were, you know, _assaulting_ me." 

"Oh, grow up. I didn't hurt you." 

"Okay, you didn't hurt me. And I'm sorry about the waffle thing, even though I just dropped mine and you, technically, threw yours and broke the plate. They were great. I shouldn't have taken our fight out on the waffles." 

"They weren't pity waffles." 

"I know." 

"The rest of it.... I mean...none of it's pity." 

Blair's fingers brushed lightly down the side of his neck. "I know," he repeated, huskily. "That was a stupid thing to say." 

Honesty, honesty. Communication. In this situation, what would his father never, ever have said? "I just.... It's weird. That you could walk away, and I never can." 

Under his ear, Blair's chest rose and fell in a long sigh. "If you say so, man." And then he laughed for no apparent reason, and tightened his arms briefly around Jim. "Whatever you say." 


End file.
